Run Away
by ashestoashesanddusttodust
Summary: In their line of work chick-flick moments are almost impossible to avoid. Almost.


**Run Away  
**

**A Word**: Rewatching episodes and random thoughts appear. Nothing else to see here folks.

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Dean hits the bed hard.

It creaks and squeals under his weight almost loud enough to cover his own groan as the impact jolts his most likely bruised ribs. The bitch of a ghost had nailed him good. Waiting for just the right moment to fling Dean down two flights of stairs. Making sure to use enough force to make him hit every single step on the way down. Hard.

He's damn lucky he doesn't have a concussion to go along with the screaming ribs. He's really lucky Sam'd found her body before she could follow up on Dean while he was laid out on the floor too stunned to do more than gape up at the pretty lights while pain lanced through him. He's damn, _damn_ lucky and they both know it.

Sam hovers over Dean, pacing the room as he gets out their battered and badly in need of restocking first aid kit. Sending _looks_ at Dean's back that he can _feel_ burning against his skin. It's part anger, part fear, and all bitchiness.

"Dean," Sam says from close by, the mattress squeaking again under his massive weight as he leans over. Close enough to nudge Dean with a knee or maybe it's an elbow. "Dean, wake up."

"'m awake," Dean mutters into the comforter. A sterile smelling thing in a horrid floral print that he swears is burning straight though his closed eyelids. He really wants nothing more than to sleep the night off, but knows that option isn't in the immediate future for him. At least not until Sam's been placated.

"Let me see your ribs," Sam says. Hands tugging carefully on the hem of Dean's shirt.

Dean grunts as the motion jars his ribs and reaches back to blindly smack at his brother's hands. Which is not one of his brighter moves. The pain comes in waves at the twisting motion. It's looking more and more like he might have broken one or two. Dean lets his arm flop back down onto the bed and concentrates on holding himself very, very still. "Son'uva bitch."

"Come on Dean," Sam cajoles, leaving off his prodding for the moment. "We need to wrap those. Now."

Sam's voice is low and tight. Just the faintest hint of something wobbly and Dean knows he's already lost this fight.

"They're not broken," Dean denies as he carefully rolls over to sit up. The wince he can't quite hide as he shrugs out of his jacket and shucks the shirts he's wearing call him a blatant liar. Sam, thankfully, says nothing. Though the ass' skeptical look says a million things. Mostly things about Dean's level of intelligence.

They're not flattering things.

Dean pulls a face back at him and sits obediently still as Sam starts trying to spear him with his suddenly knife sharp fingers. One prod makes Dean hiss and Sam immediately begins to target the spot with more poking. Pushing harder on the area with the pads of his fingers. Carefully but certainly not gently. Dean bites back a few choice words and concentrates on the area himself. Sam's prodding hurts like a mother but Dean doesn't feel the tell-tale shift of ribs or the searing kill-me-now agony that'd come with said shift.

Sam obviously doesn't feel any of it either, and Dean relaxes as he moves on. Fingers slipping up and down the ladder of Dean's ribs. Systematically searching for and finding every sore spot. Testing each area for serious injury. Starting with the bottom left side, working his way up, and then down the other side.

Just like they've done ever since Dean was old enough to go out and hunt. Ever since Dean was old enough to come back hurt and so not ready to deal with a teary eyed Sam who only wanted proof his big brother was going to be ok.

It hurts like a bitch. Dean grits his teeth and takes it. Letting Sam assure himself that Dean really is fine.

Eventually, after far too much pain, Sam sits back on his heels letting out a relieved sounding sigh.

"Told you," Dean grunts as he slowly lets himself sink back down onto the bed. A smart remark about Sam's mother henning tendencies hovers on his tongue, but he swallows it back down. Having Sam do his best impression of a helicopter parent is annoying as all fuck, but Dean figures the kid deserves another week of it. Maybe two. After that shit the trickster pulled on them -on _Sam_- Dean can put up with a freakout or two.

_He_ wasn't the one who had vivid memories of Dean dying after all. Over and over and over again.

"Yeah, well," Sam clears his throat and looks away. His eyes losing some of that scary intense focus that's been in them since the hunt ended.

"Yeah," Dean echoes and shifts on the bed. They were uncomfortably close to having a moment here or, god forbid, an actual _talk_. Dean coughs, wincing at the way it moves his chest, then rolls over. A flopping, flailing motion that sends stars across his vision. "Night, Sammy."

Silence fills the room for long seconds. Dean can feel the tension draw out between them in those seconds. The threat of emotional shit hanging over their heads in a way that makes him feel like he could get up and run a damn marathon just to get away from it.

It snaps with the sound of Sam's half-breathed laugh. Clothing rustles and Dean hears the other bed groan as Sam drops down. The light clicks off and Sam laughs again, "Night, Dean."

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End file.
